


Sheith Ficlets

by llyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15002345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/llyn
Summary: Shiro feels distant from his own body, now that he's back. Keith knows how to help.





	1. The End

They wait on a friendly planet for the coalition to join them. First, Shiro sleeps. He dreams the dreams of another. He dreams of a fight, of violet eyes, and a voice low as a purr, a voice like running a calloused thumb over silk, a pretty boy’s voice, in pain. Even in his dreams, he knows he’s to blame for that. He knows, too, that he’s slept for a long time when he wakes to the blur of reality. Shiro isn’t used to seeing out of these eyes. But he knows the voice calling him. 

He blinks, and there he is.

"Keith.”

* * *

Keith finds, and not to his surprise, that no one will stop him from sleeping in Shiro’s room. He’d been punished at the Garrison for this. Shiro had, too. No one can stop him, now. No one can keep him from Shiro, and nothing.

The others bring them meals. They ask about Shiro. There’s not much to tell. A few times he gets up, unsteady, to walk toward the bathroom like he’s half sunk in quicksand. Keith gets him to drink, holding his groggy head up. But mostly, Shiro sleeps, and Keith watches. Then, one morning, Shiro wakes up. 

* * *

“How do you feel?”

“I feel--” Shiro holds out his arm, squeezes his hand into a fist. He goes to repeat this on the right, then pauses. Right. Not a dream. He still feels as if he’s floating above, not quite connected to his body, to this sleepy man with his legs caught in the tangle of sheets. It helps to look into Keith’s eyes. “I feel kind of like I’m piloting a Shiro.” 

This makes Keith laugh and look away, brushing his long hair from his eyes. “We should all be so lucky,” he says. 

Shiro flushes. He  _ feels _ himself flush. The sensation overwhelms him. The heat. The prickle of skin. The sight of Keith, close enough to touch, really touch, biting his lip. When he sees Shiro’s expression though, his face goes soft, that lick of flame replaced by worry. “What’s wrong?” 

He finds his smile, for Keith. He should be honest. “You made me blush. That hasn’t happened in--”

“Years,” Keith says. He understands. 

“It’s strange.” He looks at himself. His scarred chest and the sheet pooled in his lap. His body is his. And maybe, when he left, he took a piece of the Black Lion with him, because when he looks at Keith he thinks,  _ Mine _ , too. 

“I can help you,” Keith says, motioning Shiro to move over, slipping onto the bed beside him. In the Lion, he had seemed so small, like a candle in Shiro’s palm that might blow out. In person, he’s burning hot. So alive. Shiro can smell him, see him, feel his fingers weave with his own.

“Squeeze my hand,” he says. Shiro squeezes. Keith smiles. “There you are. I always thought, as a kid, that it seemed wrong that I just ended at the tips of my fingers and toes. I’d put my hand on the back of my head and think,  _ That’s it? I don’t just keep going and going? _ ” 

As he speaks, Keith slips his hand free and trails his fingers over Shiro’s. Fingers so slender and graceful, his touch so light it tickles. They both watch him trace Shiro’s hand, until Shiro catches him, unexpectedly, and twines their fingers together again. He squeezes. Keith squeezes back. Then they’re just holding hands and not letting go. Shiro clears his throat. “Well, you were right. We don’t end,” he says. “Not our consciousness.” 

Keith smiles and tips himself close, pressing their shoulders together now, too. “I’m glad. But sometimes it helps to be reminded where your body ends and someone else’s begins. His other hand closes around Shiro’s bicep, and the muscle flexes. Keith looks up at him, speaking softly, “Do you want to try?” 

Shiro nods, hypnotized by those eyes, not sure what to expect. 

Keith reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Shiro’s head. His fingers scratch through his undercut, back and forth, soothing him. “That’s it, Shiro.” he says. “That’s the end.” 

“No,” Shiro says. He leans down to catch Keith’s lips in his own. It’s the beginning. 


	2. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a scary daddy. Hair all white at twenty-seven. Just home from the war. Lives in his car.

What a shitty night. In fact, what a life of shitty nights Shiro had led. He redefined the term rock bottom. Like losing an arm wasn’t enough. Like going MIA _ twice _ wasn’t enough. He had a chest full of scars to remind him of all the rock bottoms he’d smashed through on the way to deeper, darker, worse, and unnamed places. Try showing that chest to a pretty boy--they’d green up and run for it like the boys overseas. What a scary daddy. Hair all white at twenty-seven. Just home from the war. Lives in his car. 

He tries, at the bar, to fake happy. He tries to celebrate his own return. It’s not easy. He may be back in the physical sense--the  _ I’m now free to drink until I can’t remember _ sense. But his mind? Well, you know how it goes, after war. Which leaves only his spirit, and his spirit is crushed, cause his baby’s not here tonight. 

The party noise briefly surrounds him. He’s given a shot. He takes it with a pre-emptive wince--he’s been shot before--but it’s sweet on his tongue. His friends laugh and squeeze his shoulder and give him room to sit with his thoughts. That’s just how they are. Good kids.

But he wants his bad boy. God, it’s been years. He tilts his head up toward the cobwebbed ceiling, seeing flashes of Keith in his mind’s eye. He flicks through like the pages of his well-thumbed porno rag at the base, before everything went to shit. Those pretty bunnies never did much for him, though he tried his best. Nobody has melted dark chocolate eyes like his baby. Shiro couldn’t sleep the whole journey home, wondering what he looks like now. 

He doesn’t need to wonder why he didn’t show, though. No question that the news from whatever twink grapevine Keith belongs to is all bad. The kid won’t want him anymore. What’s left of him. Nobody would. Ah, well. 

Another round. 

His friends must read the word  _ misery _ right there on his face. Princess, bless her, slips Shiro a joint with a wink, then spills just enough beer down the front of her dress to distract half the bar. It’s good cover. Shiro takes it, escaping the bar’s old, friendly hug for the cool, alien landscape outside. The unbroken blanket of snow stretches on out of sight, coating the plowed-under soy fields. It might as well be the moon. 

Of course, Keith is there. Princess must be a bonafide witch or a first-class social schemer.  Probably both. Shiro’s not either. Just broken. He freezes up like a kid at his prom date’s front door. He can’t move. He can’t talk. All he can do is stare. At least Keith looks just as scared as Shiro feels. He can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands, tugging on each of his fingerless gloves in turn. His heartbreaker face seems just different, but its effect is exactly the same. 

“Hi,” Keith says, into the silence. There’s a boot crunch of snow as he steps further into the light, beside Shiro. 

Shiro swallows heavy and tries his best. “Keith,” is all he can manage. He’s gotta wrap him up in a hug quick, to keep from crying. If he starts crying now, he’ll never stop. 

“Shiro.” He’s grown up. Shiro can hear it, and feel it in the lean, warm muscle of his back, under his palm. Keith lifts his face from where he tucked it against Shiro’s neck to rub his cheek on Shiro’s scratchy jaw. It’s feline. It lights Shiro up. His breath puffing out unsteady in the black night might as well be his ghost leaving his body at last.  _ See ya, sucker _ . He’s at Keith’s mercy.

When he doesn’t do what he should--which is to grab his baby by the chin and kiss him, hard--Keith pulls away. His eyes take in Shiro’s million dollar new arm with a blink. He looks like he might say something about it, but bites his lip instead. 

Say  _ anything _ , Shiro. Goddamnit. “Keith--”

“You--” Keith says at the same time. They both stop and look down at their boots in the snow.

If the crickets weren’t frozen, they’d be chirping. If Shiro could kick himself in the ass, he would. Then he remembers--Princess, bless her--the joint in his pocket. He brings it out to light. If nothing else, he’ll taste Keith on the paper. 

Keith looks up at the flick of the lighter, hugging himself against the cold. He smiles, “You missed the fight.” 

“Fight?” 

“Yeah. Look,” Keith accepts the joint, using it to point toward a patch of trampled snow. “I was on my way inside--and this guy--” He interrupts himself to smoke, brushing a stray black strand from his face.  _ This guy. _ Shiro takes the joint back, frowning. Keith says, “He was bothering me. So I--” 

“Does he bother you often?” Shiro asks. God, he’s a loser. 

Keith scrunches his nose, “He tries. Anyway, I laid him out, look.” On second inspection, there  _ is _ a kind of snow angel among the circling boot prints. A splatter of red blood, too. 

“Did he hurt you?” 

“No.”

“You always could fight.” 

Shiro doesn’t know why, but this makes Keith go shy. He hugs himself again, tighter, casting his eyes down at the blood he’s spilt with a soft smile. “You taught me how,” he says. 

Shiro can taste him on the joint, or else it’s wishful thinking, eating Keith’s every sharp angle up with his eyes. 

“You taught me everything,” Keith says, the dark curtain of his hair falling forward.  

“Not everything.” 

“You would’ve,” Keith says. “If you’d stayed.” 

The way he says it--with such blind faith, so sure he’s right--Shiro can’t lie to him. “Yeah,” he says. “I would’ve.” 

The joint’s done. He drops it. He wants a real taste so badly. 

“You look good,” Keith says. 

Shiro blows out smoke with a laugh. Yeah, right. “That’s my line, baby.”

Keith pinks up, stepping closer. He still likes that old name, at least. “I mean it. The gray--” 

Shiro catches his gloved hand on its way to his hair and brings it down to his lips to kiss the broken skin of his knuckles. It’s the gentlest way he can think of to say  _ shut up _ . “I’m glad you like it. It feels like there’s not much left of me to like.” 

Keith frowns, eyebrows knitting together, “Are you really back?” 

Nobody else has asked. Keith must already know the answer. He cups Shiro’s face in his palm, his sweetheart face tilted up, eyes all full of stars. His cheeks and nose are tinged pink, just like the first time they met. The Little and Big Brothers’ Club. This little punk who’d been put in his care. He’d pinked up the first time he saw Shiro. Not so tough anymore, just a shy kid fidgeting in his chair, trying to look anywhere but into his eyes when they shook hands.

They could start where they left off, with kisses behind the soccer field, the night before he shipped out. But Shiro needs Keith to move first this time. “I’m not back yet,” he says, covering Keith’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Just come home with me,” Keith says. There’s no doubt in his eyes. “I’ll find you, Shiro.” 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @commandantllyn or my tumblr: galrallyn


End file.
